Another worst war story

*This post was written on Wednesday night.

There are two types of people in El Salvador: People who talk openly about the war and people who don’t talk about it at all.

When someone gets on the topic of the war, I always ask him or her to only share with me what they’re comfortable talking about. I would never want someone to relive horrifying memories just for my sake. However, in my experience, the people who willingly bring up the war are the ones who are most definitely comfortable talking about it, even if it is in a detached and factual manner.

I really do want to know about what happened here. I do. But every time I hear a war story I think, “That has got to be the worst one.” Beheadings. Bombings. Execution. Rape. Children, women, the young and the old. I will never be able to understand what these individuals are truly thinking and feeling as they speak about their passed loved ones. Many people have buried their pain so deep down that they don’t seem to feel anything at all.

I’m at odds with this. I mean, how do you respond to a man who casually discusses driving a pregnant woman to her execution? Or when in passing you hear about how your host mom found the remains of her 14-year-old sister dumped on the street? How do you let people share these extremely personal and tragic experiences with you when you yourself haven’t been desensitized to war?

It’s been a heavy experience. It’s pulled me outside of myself.

Tonight I found out from my host dad that a very close friend of mine lost two young daughters when a bomb hit her house during the war. My friend has never shared this with me, and I might have gone on never knowing if my host dad hadn’t added it to the conversation.

At first I felt stunned. My friend is an amazingly cheerful woman. How could she have suffered this loss and still be so unfailingly hopeful? It doesn’t make sense. She has talked about the war with me during the year and a half that I've spent time with her, but she's kept the loss of her daughters to herself. I felt more affected by this omission than by all the revolting recounts of torture or murder that others have so freely given up.

I started tearing up, but I thought it would pass. My host mom called me into the kitchen to make up a plate of platanos con crema, and I just lost it. It was awkward. I could sense that she felt weird by me crying and she just started piling platanos on my plate to make me feel better. I tried to laugh it off, like when I broke down crying to my first host family during my first weeks in-country or when I cried all over the Director of PeaceCorps. “Sorry for crying! I just love your platanos so much!”

We ate our platanos outside and I told her the real reason for the waterworks. She just kind of stared at me like it was very strange that I should cry for children I have never met, or for a woman I’ve only known for a short amount of time. I guess it would seem a little bizarre to her, given that her tears have long dried up for the loved ones she lost.

The topic disappeared along with our platanos. I’m left here feeling… sad? Unsettled? I really don’t know. In a way I’m thankful I feel anything, even if I can’t explain it.

Living with strangers!

When it comes to living with a host family, it’s general PCV consensus that you’re either treated as a member of the family or you’re better off living alone. Most all Peace Corps posts require that you live with a host family during the 3 months of training before you start your service. The benefits are clear: better language and cultural immersion, introduction to local foods, safety, etc. El Salvador extends the host family living requirement throughout PC service, mostly for safety concerns. This can either be a blessing or an, ahem, “learning experience.”

Every host family is different, and there are pros and cons in every living situation. It’s a nasty PCV tendency to compare our host families, but it’s a topic that always comes up. I lived in a beautiful remeza (remittances from the US) house, but my host family situation was less than great. Similarly, there are people living in houses that barely scrape past the PC inspections but have a warm and supportive host family. I can definitely say that the later is much better for mental and emotional health. The house feels more like home when you actually like being in it! Leaky roof and all.

The three host families I’ve lived with in El Salvador are each so unique, but I definitely feel like third time’s the charm. I’ve finally found a family that treats me as family. I’m not the almighty gringa who must be served, nor am I a monthly rent check. I am Ale. Silly, chatty, and a big eater. I like tea in the morning and weak café listo at night. I love the telenovela Mi Corazón Es Tuyo but I don’t like the one about the chocolate factory. I feel free to talk about anything with my new host family. As I say, I have MAD confianza with them. I trust them and they trust I won’t burn their house down.

In June I was experiencing the notorious “Mid-Service Crisis” and my host family was a large part of my freak out. I wanted to move out of my house immediately. Unfortunately, “immediately” turned into “never” when PCES told me that no, I may not live in my own casita. With no other housing options available, I had to suck it up and stay with the family. Technically, there wasn’t a safety or security risk, so my concerns were chalked up to “cultural differences.” It was frustrating, but I eventually resigned to my fate of lonely nights, disgusting household chores, and a pervasive, underlying tension.

When communities are vetted to receive a PCV they must offer up three housing options elected by the counterparts themselves. This might mean they offer up their extended family's house or the nice remeza house, or they offer up a house and host family that seems like a good idea but really isn't. The benefits of living in the community for so long is that now I know who I wouldn’t mind living with and who would make my life a living hell. (I know where the bolos live and who hosts culto every week. No way, José!). Thank goodness my new family had a room become available when the original housing contract was broken last month and I had to move out.

I understand that opening one's home to a stranger, a foreigner no less, can be a daunting thing to ask. In addition to the 2-year time commitment, there are the daily miscommunications, preconceived notions, and the issue of taking "me time" in a country that doesn't value being alone. It could be a tough sell for both PCVs and host families alike. Like I said before, I'm not necessarily mad that I had to move. The host family seemed nice when PC met them, they were kind when I arrived, and the house is amazing compared to the others in the community. I mean, the walls go all the way up to the ceilings! That's a huge deal! PC couldn't have predicted the ridiculous power dynamic that cropped up after a few months, nor could they predict that the family would break the housing contract a year and a half in.

I learned about a new religion and way of life with my old host family, and I'm thankful for the experience. However, I feel so relieved when I come home to my new host family. I feel so comfortable and happy with them, and I never felt anything like this with my last family. It's weird, but every happy moment is tinged with a bit of sadness. A voice in my heads keeps asking, why couldn’t I have lived with this family at the start? Why couldn’t I have moved here sooner? I think that my service would have been better, more "successful" even, if my home life was happier. I would have had the ganas to bounce back faster after a setback and, surely, I would have made more and better contacts in the community.

I know, I know. Live in the present, not the past, bla bla bla. But I can’t help but think about how different my experience would have been if I felt this kind of support earlier. I feel like a year and a half in my site has been wasted battling catty host sisters and constantly feeling uncomfortable at home.

Ob the bright side, I truly think it’s all a “learning experience.” If everything was easy from the start, would it even be Peace Corps?

My first and last fair

You might have picked up on this by now, but my last host family didn't go out much. They sincerely believed that the freaks come out at night. That coupled with the expectation that I was home by 5pm every night resulted in a year and a half of avoiding community events and fairs.

No more, my friends!

My new host family is always on the move. This past week was the patron saint fair in my pueblo, and it's the first and last time I'll see it. Well, better late than never, right?

Chancho Encebado (Greased Pig) 

I thought this event consisted of greasing up a pig in vegetable oil and just embracing the pig. A hug really. To win you have to be the first man to hug the pig. 

Uh, I was wrong. Chancho is one of the many derivatives for "pig" in El Salvador. We have cerdo, tunco, chancho, cuche and probably a few others. That's why people have a hard time learning Spanish in El Salvador- everything has 5 slang nicknames. 

They brought out the 170lb pig an began to shave it with an electric razor. Who knew that pigs were so hairy? Shaving the pig makes it more slippery when you rub margarine and vegetable oil all over it. From snout to curly tail, that pig was greased. Grown men must take off their shirts, pick up the pig, carry it from the pen, and then carry it to the end of the street. You have 30 seconds each turn to get the pig out of the pen, and they go in turns until someone wins. If you can manage the twisting, screaming pig, you can keep it. Eat it or sell it, it's up to you.

It's a lot harder to do than you think.

I really, really didn't like that the pig was dragged, dropped on its head, body slammed and even punched by one participant. I told my new host siblings that I don't like it! This is mean! And they just told me to calm down, it's only a tradition.

Well, I officially lost my shit when a participant got mad and scooped up a hand full of pig shit and threw it into the air so it fell ever so gracefully on everyone's heads. I had poop in my hair, on my backpack, and on my clothes. At this point I was getting pretty loud and pissed off. None of the men could manage the pig, so I think they got a consolation prize of $10 each.

Torriada (Bull Riding) 

The bull event was more enjoyable, but still features animal cruelty (from my American POV). We all filed in (after dark!) to a rickety stadium of sorts a few miles away from my community. My host uncle owns a cattle truck, which actually serves as a people truck. He'll bring at least 50 people at a time to the events, and he doesn't even charge. When we pulled up to the rickety stadium I knew this was going to be an experience.

I say it was rickety because it was a series of wood slats tied together and laid across metal beams. It literally make a rickety sound when you walked the plank.

The torriada features bulls (with testicles, this was made to be a big deal) ridden for a few seconds by a bull rider then cornered by three men skilled in tempting fate. They brought the bull in with bright red flags then would dive out of the way. No one got seriously injured, but there were some close calls.

In the middle of the torriada we got a special visit from a dou act of clowns. Now, I've seen a lot of clowns here in El Salvador. People here love clowns. I hate clowns. They are not funny. Slapstick comedy is usually not funny to me. But, in the spirit of cultural sensitivity, I laughed at the clowns. There were some pretty real laughs, too. The act was set to music and they were timed down to the second. They had a bunch of props and can sing and twerk. They had a briefcase painted to look like a camera, complete with a "flash" on top. They went around taking pictures of the crowd, and they spotted me in the front row and made sure to get a picture. What he took out of the briefcase were large pictures of monkeys, obese people, and toothless old ladies. I was depicted to be a very ugly boy. I got a kick out of that. They had some topical references such as cleaning the pila in your boxers and picky pupusa orderers (I want 1 frijo con queso, 1 puro queso, 1 half and half revuelta y queso). It was funny, trust me.

The night was freezing though! I'm definitely not enjoying this super cold weather. Ya know, like 60 degrees!

Desfile de Candidatas (Parade of Candidates) 

Even though this next event goes right past my community, I had never participated before last night. It was so much fun! There are about eight candidatas who are in the running to win queen of the fair. It's incredibly expensive to be a candidata. You need multiple prom dresses, family members who own cars, and you have to buy candy to throw out at the desfile. The parade takes place at night because the floats are all lit up. Most of the floats throw candy, but sometimes they throw a cup of noodles. I made a brilliant jumping catch for a cup of noodles. Everyone was impressed! But I'm fortunate enough to have a host family who cooks for me, so I gave my prized cup of noodles to an old lady. She was very sweet and said she'd eat them for lunch tomorrow. 

I win!!!

One of the floats. 

This weekend I'm going to the crowning ceremony for the candidatas and whatever else the fair has to offer. After all, this is my last patron saint fair and I finally have a host family who will go with me. 

"Part of my debt repaid"

I want to give a shout out to my PCV friend Rachel who recently published a wonderful blog post. Rachel just participated in the GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) camp that I'm supremely jealous of. As PCVs do, Rachel had some post-camp reflections about the state of El Salvador, women, and the purpose of Peace Corps.

There's a part in Rachel's post where she talks about why she chose to serve in the Peace Corps. She mentions her childhood and the boundless activities, sports, and educational opportunities she had. Our childhoods are remarkably similar, even down to the saxophone lessons and swim practice. (Though, I must admit, Rachel is much smarter and challenged herself academically way more!)

Rachel captures a true and beautiful reason for coming to a country like El Salvador where these opportunities for children are virtually nonexistent:

Peace Corps is, in some small way, part of my debt repaid. I want to be that camp counselor, that sports coach, that arts and crafts guru, and that teacher for the kids in my community that opened my mind, taught me about myself and about the world, and motivated me to make something of myself when I was a kid.

This message resonates so greatly with me. Throughout my service I've been trying to explain exactly why it was that I wanted to do this. I've given pathetically vague answers like, "I just wanted to have the experience" or "I wanted to give back." But now that I've been in it for what feels like a very long time, I'm starting to realize that what I thought of PC before applying and what I think now are completely different. I can't even recognize the person who wrote my letter of intent to serve. She seems so wildly hopeful to the point of being downright naive. She sounds impractical, a little calculated, and self-serving in such a condescending way. And yes, we're talking about someone who wants to serve in the Peace Corps.

I realize now that the indicators and objectives just aren't my thing. Especially not in a place that needs hope more than anything else. That's where I believe our place is as Peace Corps Volunteers- sharing joy and spreading some hope. I never thought I would be teaching an art class before I came to ES, but it's turned out to be the best part of my service. I'm so proud and genuinely impressed by my kids, and Leo has become a great working partner.

It's not what I expected when I applied 3 years ago, but deep down it's what I wanted to do. Like Rachel, I feel like in some small way I'm paying back, or dare I say, paying forward the love and generosity I was given as a child.

So thanks everyone. You've done more good than you'll ever know.

Please read Rachel's amazing blog post here.

Neydi's birthday

If you've been following my blog, you're probably familiar with Neydi (who I incorrectly called Lady for, oh, 15 months). Neydi is part of my future host family and we get along great. I spent all day with her and the future fam on Sunday and we had a ton of fun. We ate pizza and panes (shredded chicken sandwiches), and cake and a piñata.

The giant pizza and some future host fam. 

Though very few kids were actually invited, more always show up and you HAVE to feed them. Look at this sly guy. 

Neydi being a goof with what's left of the piñata. 

Cutting the cake! Neydi is 12 years old!

And of course, the biting of the cake. 

Neydi was more interested in the cake being passed out.

Sugar rush

Last week I went to the trapiche and sampled the various dulce treats with my future host family. You might remember that I took the trainees Ofira and Julie there during Immersion Days 2014. The sugar cane is finally ripe for juicing so I grabbed my camera and learned about the process. 

The castrated bulls are hooked up the trapiche. The teens feed the trapiche caña and keep the bulls moving. It takes about an hour to fill the stone basin. *It is very important that they use castrated bulls because they must walk calmly in circles for hours on end.*

Don Cando gets some fresh sugar water for me. 

Neydi drinks some murky brown sweet water. 

Me too. Not too bad!

It was hard to get a good pic of the sugar water boiling down, but there are 3 large vats of bubbling brown liquid. It takes about 1.5 hours to reduce over the intense inferno beneath.

After boiling, Don Chepi pours the reduced brown sugar syrup into wooden wolds. They solidify in about 20 minutes. 

Dump them out and start wrapping. 

The finished product. Each bundle costs $1 at the market. 

The dulce is brown and clumpy, and goes best in foods like arroz con leche. It's 100% natural. I loved seeing the whole process. They were cutting the cane in the field right next to the trapiche, they juiced and boiled and molded and packed all together. I love special batch stuff! And this takes a certain degree of specialized knowledge. Don Cando is a dulce master. 

I don't have any pictures of the kids that came swarming with their paintbrush like cane sticks. They used the brushes to scoop some reduced cańa from the boiling vats. It's good, but all the sugar made me sick. I have no idea how they kept scooping sugar into their mouths. It's a special occasion to make dulces, but damn kids! You're gonna lose your remaining teeth! The kids were also sent out to the field to bring in more cane. Everyone helps at the trapiche. 

Makin' moves

Back in the campo and back in action! I had an absolutely amazing time at home. I ate a bunch of my favorite foods (though now I'm thinking of things I missed and will haunt me until I go home again), and saw my favorite people. The best times I had were when people just acted like it was another normal December day with Alex. Not "Oooooh my GAWD we have such little time together and it will be ages before I see you again so let me just STARE at you." The later made me feel uncomfortable and even a little angry. I don't want to constantly be reminded that I'm just a visitor in my own home! Naturally, some of the people to commit this crime are the ones I love most dearly.

And a lot of people thought I was home for good. I guess time goes faster in the USA, because I met up with people who felt positive that I had been in El Salvador for at least 2 years already. (It's actually been 542 days, but who's counting?)

I needed the time to recharge my batteries in the US. I've had a lot of momentous setbacks and failed projects, and I basically went missing when I was writing my capstone. (Which, if you would like to read, can be found on the Stevenson Center for Community and Economic Development's Research webpage here.) I was feeling blah and very "over it" regarding service or work related activities. I'm kicking myself for that now, because some PCVs from my group just pulled off a very successful GLOW camp that has been months in the works. I wish I was feeling more motivated and got in on this great opportunity!

I came back feeling much more in the game for my last 9 months of service. Actually, right now it's kind of like 8 months. And it's really only about 5 months until I visit home again so.... this is it.

I guess time goes fast in El Salvador, too.

I'm already making big moves. I mean literally, I'm moving host families. I got back from vacation and was handed some unfortunate news along the lines of "move out." Although I was surprised, I wasn't very upset. I have a very unusual relationship with my host family. I've never been treated as a family member but I'm more than just a tenant. I have gross household chores that are way above my pay grade and they just do not care about my sleep schedule. I took this boot to the butt as an opportunity to move in with a family who welcomes, accepts, and supports me. The actual housing structure is, well, a major downgrade. But I don't care in the least bit. I've gotten to know my future host family over the past year and a half and I feel like I'll be so much happier under their roof.

Right now we're working to bring it up to PCES standards. I'm helping to build a door and hook up electricity, and do something about the bat problem. I'm also spending some good bonding time with my future family. Today is a birthday party and I'm bringing American candy to snack on.

I'm going to be sad to move. I've made this my home. I have pictures up on the walls and I know where the cell signal hits best on all areas of our property. I like chatting with my host dad and I really like our fancy house (indoor plumbing!). And Aysel. Don't even get me started, I might cry. I've been spending time just talking nonsense with her and knocking green mangos off our trees. I'm gonna miss my niñita.